Two days had flown by in Alex Thompson's new life at One Chicago, and the Baller Sign-in System was dropping cash like a chart-topping single. Each morning, he'd signed in, and boom—another million bucks hit his Chase account. His balance was now sitting pretty at $2,995,786.46. Straight-up baller status, he thought, grinning as he lounged in his penthouse, the Chicago skyline sparkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Back in his Montana days, his grandpa—a Vietnam vet with a no-bullshit vibe—had taught him to keep his eyes on the prize, whether it was hitting a target with a Glock 19 or pushing through Ranger training. Now, at 24, Alex was aiming higher than ever.
He'd expected the system's rewards to be random, but the perky, TikTok-star voice had laid it out: "Daily sign-ins always drop at least a mil in cash, host. Plus, monthly check-ins? Those bring the big flex—think supercars, private jets, or some wild shit. Stay locked in!" Alex leaned back on his leather couch, the kind you'd see in a Hollywood mogul's office. Knowing a cool million was guaranteed daily? That took the edge off. Without this system, he'd still be dodging Mrs. Nowak in that South Side dump, scraping by as a junior coder. Now? He was living like a rap star, with a crib that could be in a Drake music video.
For two days, he'd been geeking out over the penthouse's tech. The smart-home system was like having JARVIS from Iron Man—lights dimmed when he left a room, the fridge suggested recipes based on what he had, and the shower knew his perfect temp. He'd even found a hidden panel in the game room that controlled a sound system so dope it made his J. Cole playlist sound like a live concert. This place is a cheat code, he thought, still half-expecting to wake up back in his old life.
It was 9:00 AM when he rolled out of the king-sized bed, the sheets softer than anything he'd ever crashed on. After splashing water on his face in a bathroom bigger than his old apartment, he grabbed his phone to head downstairs for some breakfast—maybe a bagel from a Gold Coast spot. A notification pinged on his lock screen: a new message on WhatsApp. He opened it and saw a friend request from Marcus Reed, the One Chicago butler. The message read: "Mr. Thompson, this is Marcus, your building concierge. Hope I'm not overstepping by adding you here!" Alex smirked—Marcus was smooth, like a guy who'd seen it all but still kept it 100. He approved the request.
Seconds later, Marcus sent a follow-up: "Good morning, sir! Apologies for the bother." Attached was an image—a property management notice. Alex zoomed in. Big black letters at the top: NOTICE. It detailed the annual fees for One Chicago residents, with a special callout for Alex's penthouse: $21,000, due to its massive 8,200-square-foot size. Damn, that's a grip, he thought, but his bank balance laughed it off. Three mil in the account? He could pay that in his sleep.
He typed back: "Yo, Marcus, can I just Venmo you the fee?" Marcus replied instantly: "Absolutely, sir! 😊" Alex opened Venmo, but the app hit him with a transfer limit—$5,000 max without jumping through verification hoops. Ain't nobody got time for that. He shot Marcus a message: "Limit's tripping. I'll swing by downstairs and swipe my card." Marcus responded: "No problem, sir. I'll be in the lobby."
Alex grabbed his wallet, slipped on his J. Cole hoodie and Nikes, and took the elevator down. In the One Chicago lobby—marble floors, modern art, the whole bougie vibe—he spotted Marcus standing with a woman in a property management uniform, holding a POS machine. Alex gave a nod, swiped his card for the $21,000, and bounced without a word. Behind him, Marcus and the woman exchanged a look, probably shocked at how chill he was about dropping that kind of cash. If they only knew, Alex thought, smirking.
He hit the Gold Coast streets, grabbing a coffee and a bagel from a corner café where baristas were blasting Chance the Rapper. The rest of the day was a blur—Alex got lost in the city, wandering the Magnificent Mile, checking out sneaker shops, and even swinging by a Tesla dealership. With his bank account stacked, he was itching to cop something big. A Model S Plaid caught his eye, its sleek lines screaming speed and status. That's some Fast & Furious shit right there. But something held him back—maybe the Ranger in him, always planning three steps ahead. Chill, wait for the next sign-in. Might be something crazier.
By 8:00 PM, he was back at One Chicago, arms full of shopping bags—new kicks, a leather jacket, and some snacks for the penthouse. He flopped onto the couch, the city lights twinkling outside. His phone buzzed, and he saw a missed call from Mom. Growing up in Montana, family was everything. His parents had scraped by to support him, even helping with that Bozeman condo down payment last year. Now, with the system's cash, he could hook them up proper.
He dialed Mom back, leaning against the penthouse's massive windows. After a quick ring, her cheerful voice came through: "Alex! I was just about to hit you up! Ain't that some mother-son telepathy?"
He laughed, his Montana drawl slipping out. "For real, Mom. You know I'm your boy." She chuckled, then shouted away from the phone: "See, Frank? Our kid calls me, not you!" Alex could hear his dad grumbling in the background, probably tinkering with his old Ford truck.
"Mom, I'm sending you some cash," Alex said, cutting to the chase. "Y'all need to eat good, maybe take a trip. Don't be pinching pennies no more."
Mom's tone softened. "Oh, honey, we're fine. You keep that money for yourself, out there in the big city. You eating okay?"
Alex's chest tightened. Mom always worried, even after he'd survived Ranger ops and a busted knee. "I'm good, Ma. I've been making bank lately—legit money. I'm sending some your way, so just take it, aight?"
She hesitated, then relented. "Alright, you win. But I'm saving it for your wedding one day!" Alex rolled his eyes, grinning. Wedding? Slow down, Mom.
"Bet, we'll talk soon," he said, hanging up. He opened Venmo again, punched in Mom's account, and sent $20,000. That's a start. Seconds later, his phone lit up—Mom calling back, her voice panicked. "Alex, what's with this $20,000? You in trouble? You didn't do something dumb, did you?"
He laughed, ready for this. "Chill, Mom. It's all clean. Been playing the stock market, made some smart moves." The system had his back—fake stock accounts to cover his tracks. "I'll send you screenshots if you want."
Mom sighed, relieved. "Okay, but you be careful. We're proud of you, kid." They chatted a bit more, then hung up. Alex stared out at the Chicago skyline, the Lake Michigan waves catching the city lights. Back in Montana, he'd dreamed of making it big—coding an app to rival TikTok or pitching a war flick based on his Ranger days. Hollywood was the goal, right? Bankroll a script, walk the red carpet, live that A-lister life. For now, though, he was content—stacked, in a penthouse, with a system that was basically a money printer.
He cranked up some Kendrick Lamar on the smart speakers, the bass rattling the windows. "Yo, system," he thought, "what's tomorrow's sign-in gonna drop?" The interface flickered, teasing him with silence. Fine, keep it mysterious. From Montana ranges to Chicago's Gold Coast, Alex had always been a fighter. Whatever came next, he was ready to lock and load.